Warning: Smoking May Seriously Damage Your Health
by Lunar1
Summary: Inspired by a throw-away line in Night Watch, Vimes gets sick. I'm not telling you anymore because it'll give it away. Just read and weep!
1. Chapter 1

Lady Sybil was playing with little Sam when the jangle of keys and the click of the lock meant her husband had returned from work. She looked up expectantly. "Well? What did-" She stopped when she saw the look on his face. 

"Not now, eh?" said Vimes, not unkindly.

On her lap Sam had spread his tiny fingers wide and reached out for his father, making happy babbling noises. A smile split Vimes's face and he picked his son up easily. Sybil found herself smiling through her worry as Sam shrieked with delight as his father began throwing him into the air and catching him. She had to admit she had never expected her husband to be such a.... a 'hands on' father. But Vimes was getting very good at changing nappies and wiping up vomit, he came home early for at least half an hour to put his son to bed every evening and tried to make sure he spent weekends at home with his family. Sybil couldn't quite hide her appreciation at the effort he was making to spend time with the both of them and even now was still slightly shocked every time her husband waved away such expression of gratitude by telling her how much he enjoyed spending days with them. 

Seeing that she was going to get little out of her husband for the time being she slipped out to feed the dragons. She was slightly ashamed to admit it, but they seemed to be taking a bit of a backseat at the moment and most of the actual work for the Sanctuary was being done by her colleagues. However, she enjoyed banging the feed bowls together for a while and checking on all of her charges before letting herself back into the house. 

Vimes was putting his son to bed, she could hear him walking round and round the nursery no doubt with Sam on his shoulders as he sang a nursery rhyme. If you could call it singing. Despite the off key lullabies Sam seemed to enjoy the nightly ritual of being paraded around by his father before being laid down to bed. Sybil was quite sure of this because on the occasions when she laid her son down to sleep for the night he wouldn't stop crying until she did exactly the same thing. 

She waited at the bottom of the stairs until Vimes came hurrying down, almost colliding with her in his haste.

"Oh, sorry," he said, "I thought you were in the dragon house, I was just going to find you..."

"Are you going back to the Yard?" she asked.

"Only for a little while," he said, "Just some things I need to sort out. Then I'll come back and... we can talk."

"Okay. Be careful Sam," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"I will be," he replied before setting off out again.

  
  


Lady Sybil was in bed, although not yet asleep when she heard the door open, presumably to admit her husband. She hurriedly blew out the candle and put her papers on the bedside table before Vimes came upstairs. She listened to the stairs creak as he made his way up, his muffled footsteps moving along the corridor, pausing as always as he stopped to check on his son in the nursery before continuing onwards to their own bedroom. 

"Sybil?" he said as he pushed open the door, carrying a candle.

"I'm awake," she replied. He sat down on the end of the bed and put down the candle before starting to remove his boots and then his armour, piece by piece. He kept his back towards her so she wouldn't see his face in the flickering light. He didn't think he could quite meet her eyes at the moment. He blew out the candle before swinging his legs into bed and for a moment they lay in silence, and in the dark.

"So..." she said.

"So..." he agreed, lying with his hands behind his head. There was another pause and then he added, "I guess you want to know what Igor said..." The words seemed to be crawling up from a place deep underground, each one labourious, a monstrous effort required to make them audible. Vimes's voice sounded strangely constricted even though he had not visited the doctor with any throat complaint.

"Yes please, Sam. It can't possibly be as bad as you seem to be making out," Sybil said, trying to keep her voice light even though Sam's tone was starting to worry her.

There was a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob from Sam Vimes and that scared her even more. Never in all the time she had known him had she ever seen her husband cry (except in laughter) but if ever there was a time when he sounded close to tears it was now. The silence stretched out until it seemed to form a wall between them even though she could feel the warmth of his body close at hand under the bedclothes. Eventually he spoke, six words so choked with emotion they were barely understandable, six words that made her insides seem to freeze and then, in the longer silence that followed, be replaced with lead.

"He said it's a cancer Sybil."

In the ensuing silence Vimes listened to the sound of his own heart beating and thought of the pain in his chest he had continued to ignore until today. He felt Sybil's hand reach out along the pillow for his own; he took it wordlessly and thankfully as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat that seemed to take over his entire chest after a few more moments of complete stillness.

"Oh gods," his wife breathed after a moment and she heard the sharp exhalation that was the closest Sam Vimes could ever come to a sob.

"Yeah," he replied after more quiet. "That's what I said."

Sybil took a deep breath to compose herself and her voice, when it next emerged, was flat calm. "And did he say he could treat it...?"

"Yes," said Vimes quickly, "He said there was one option he could think of. That was... that was to operate as soon as he could grow a new... a new.." Vimes couldn't bring himself to say it, the idea terrified him so much, but Sybil finished his sentence for him.

"A new lung?"

"Yes."

"And how long will that take?" she asked.

"A while," Vimes replied, "It's not like those noses or fingers he does in the little vats. He has to make sure it will work properly, and if it doesn't he'll have to start again, grow another one before he'll proceed. And then there's the fact that... well, I'm not a young man anymore, to put it bluntly. And it's a major operation and something that Igor's only done twice and both of them were on other Igors... which is different to doing it on a normal person, or so he says. I might not survive the surgery."

There was another silence. "And if you don't have the surgery..?"

"A year, maybe. Six months," said Vimes in the same choked voice.

"What are you going to do?" enquired Sybil.

"I'm not going to die, Sybil!" he responded, suddenly brimming with vehemence. "I've got to much to do yet, too much to see..." Sybil knew he meant little Sam and sternly told that to the small part of herself that briefly wondered if these things to see and do had anything to do with the Watch.

She squeezed his hand gently and turned over to look at him. His face was pale in the darkness and he was breathing in short, sharp bursts, trying to keep control. "I know that," she said quietly, and he turned over as well so that they were nose to nose. "Who else knows?"

"No one except me and Igor. I'll carry on duty for a bit, until it... it starts to get worse I guess. Igor recommended I rest if I get any chest pain or anything like that, or shortness of breath..." Vimes swallowed before he continued. "And I have to give up the cigars."

"Ah," said Lady Sybil.

"I don't know if I can!" he said, close now to almost wailing. "I mean, every time I need a drink I have a smoke instead so what am I going to do now? Can't drink, can't smoke-"

Lady Sybil put her free hand over his mouth. "You managed it before," she said. With a meaningful glance out of the doorway to the corridor she added, "And this time you have so much more to fight for."

Vimes nodded and she removed her hand. "You were always enough," he said and she smiled slightly despite the fear that was growing in her heart. She kissed him and some of the lines etched so deeply on his forehead softened slightly. "I love you," he said, breaking away, "Both of you. I'm not going to give up. I'm going to fight..."

"I've never known you do anything else," said his wife, but also mildly shocked at what Vimes had just said, it wasn't often he used those three words and somehow that made hearing them said all the more powerful. A little of the fear eased slightly, the weight that seemed to have settled on her chest lifted, just a touch. 

"G'night"

"G'night."


	2. Chapter 2

It took a while for the cancer to take hold and in the time he had Vimes worked hard to try and ensure that when he did finally have to take some time off everything would be under control. It was Angua that started to suspect something, and afterwards Vimes privately wondered if she could smell the difference in him. It was true that she could certainly smell the fear, although she would have never admitted it to his face. Sam Vimes was not the kind of person that often smelt of that particular emotion. Anger, certainly. Lately pride and joy had been more in order but now it was always fear. With the fear and the constant meetings with Carrot about running this and sorting that she began to suspect something was seriously bothering the Commander. She daren't mention it to Carrot however much she would have liked to because she knew how the Captain would react, and it would be the wrong reaction in this situation, of that she was sure. He'd probably ask the man straight out and Angua had known Vimes long enough to have learnt that was not a sensible course of action. Besides, if the Commander wasn't considering retirement or facing any of the other half-heartedly imagined vague scenarios she occasionally considered he would take careful inquiries into such matters a lot better from Sergeant Angua than he would Captain Carrot. 

It was for that reason that a few weeks after Vimes's visit to Igor Sergeant Angua knocked tentatively on the Commander's office door during a quiet afternoon and despite hearing no answer very carefully pushed it open.

Commander Vimes was at his desk, actually sitting on his hands. The reason for this was that he was desperately trying to fight the urge to light a cigar. The case in his pocket was empty and all of the cigars at home had been fed very pointedly and deliberately by himself to the dragons. That had annoyed Sybil, he knew, but she had let it pass without comment. He jerked his hands free and hurriedly picked up his pen as Angua poked her head around the door.

"Yes?" he barked and she came in and shut the door behind her. Vimes frowned. Angua did not often come to his office unless called for and she wasn't the type to ask for days off. There was definitely something on her mind, her face was in as much agony of indecision someone as fundamentally unfussed as Angua could manage. Which wasn't much, but it had the shock of the unusual and Vimes might have wondered if he should take an iconograph just for the rarity value had his mind been on anything other than not going searching for any hidden cigars he might have missed.

"Sir," she said very formally and he waved a hand, the universal signal for 'carry on' and after a few more moments pause the werewolf managed to get out of her mouth whatever was on her mind. "I was just wondering sir... if you were planning a holiday..." 

Vimes blinked and then understood. That was Angua's uncharacteristically kind and tactful way of saying she had noticed all the extra meetings with Carrot and all the paperwork that had been shifted to different officers... the list went on and on. He sighed., but out of all of the people to notice Angua was one of the best he could have hoped for. She knew perhaps best of all his officers that some things had to be kept secret until the time was right for them to be revealed. He supposed it was a trait common to most werewolves when you thought about it. It was how many of the undead lived day to day...

"I am planning some leave, yes," he said after a moments silence and shuffled some of the paperwork on his desk.

Angua tried not to show her surprise. Of all the answers she had expected that was certainly not one of the top on her list. "Well, sir," she managed, "I hope you have a nice time..."

"Somehow, sergeant, I doubt it," said Vimes frankly, "I'm having time off because... well, because if I don't it's quite probable I shall die."

Angua stared at him. Vimes didn't often make jokes, he was more of a sarcastic one-liner type of person. She realised he was telling the truth. "What... why sir?" she asked.

"I'm sick, Sergeant. I know I might not look it, yet, but I am. And soon I'll need to have some time off. Until Igor's ready to treat me."

Angua stared harder and for the first time noticed the extra lines of care at the corners of the Commander's eyes and the grey underneath them. He sighed. "I'd be grateful if you didn't share this with the others," he said, "I'll tell them when I have to. For now, I thought it best..."

Angua saluted smartly. "Of course sir," she said, and took her leave.

Vimes sat back and tried to ignore the shaking in his limbs as his body demanded its regular nicotine fix. His watch chimed and he took it out and stared blankly at it for a moment. He had a meeting with Lord Vetinari soon, he ought to make a move... he didn't want to have to run anywhere and he'd noticed the short walk was making him more and more breathless every time he took it. Unbidden his hand moved to clutch at his chest. He forced his mind back to the present, to the reports to be read and written. Ten minutes later he walked calmly out of his office and down the stairs. Carrot saluted him and they set off together to the meeting with the Patrician.

"Thank you then, Captain. Commander, a word with you before you leave, please?" said Lord Vetinari. Vimes nodded to his captain and the younger man left the room. Vimes's mind was elsewhere and right now he couldn't have told anyone what he'd just spent the last twenty minutes talking about. He was thinking about home, about Sybil and Sam...

"Hhm?" he said, realising that Vetinari had just asked him a question.

"I said, Commander, it has come to my attention that something is quite obviously wrong with my chief-of-police. I was wondering if he could tell me himself before I have to use my own sources."

Vimes said nothing for a minute, simply considering his options. But he had admitted it now, and as he'd said many times before, no one gossips like a copper. Either Igor or Angua would say something before too long and perhaps it was better for Vetinari to know now rather than later. He focussed on a point some way from the man's head and tried to get the words out.

"I will be taking some leave shortly sir," he managed. Vetinari's eyebrow shot skywards but Vimes continued before the man could say anything. "I... need to have some quite major surgery to survive...a particular ailment... and I don't expect I shall be at work for sometime afterwards.... If I do return..."

He met Vetinari's eyes. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork never showed his true feelings in any matter except in the rarest of circumstances. Even then, the glimpses into the mind of such a man were confusing and at best mere fragments of the true nature held within the tall, thin figure that watched Vimes now over steepled fingers. But Vimes could see the shock and pity in Vetinari's icy blue eyes and he clenched both his jaw and fist behind his back. He didn't want pity, least of all from Havelock Vetinari.

As suddenly as it had come the expression was gone and the Patrician looked away and shuffled some papers. "Well, Commander. Your secret is safe from me and I quite understand. I wish you a speedy recovery. Give my regards to Lady Sybil... oh, and your son of course."

"Yes sir," said Vimes and he took his leave, fuming quietly. He spun and lashed out at the wall as he passed the row of dents partly through force of habit, but mostly through anger.

Carrot was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. "Back to the yard, sir?"

"Yes, yes of course," said Vimes, horrified to find he was wheezing slightly at the effort of climbing down the stairs. "And call the senior sergeants together when we get back will you. There's something I need to tell them. And you, of course." It was now or never. Perhaps it was best for it to be now before things got really bad, when he could still hand over the reigns gently rather than in shock and dismay. 

"Yes sir-" Carrot began but he was cut off by someone close at hand shouting at the top of their voice.

"Stop! Unlicensed thief!"

Vimes's legs started to move of their own volition after the figure legging it down an alleyway. A small part of him tried to point out to the rest that it was perhaps not a wise idea for a man who had spent some of the morning coughing up his own blood to be running after the fleeing thief, but it was overruled. The figure was fast, but Vimes was closing despite the fierce burning in his chest by the time they reached the end of the alleyway. He snatched at the man's sleeve but he spun and kicked Vimes who fell backwards onto the cobbles. However, Captain Carrot had been moving to cut the thief off and as he ran with a backward glance at the watchman sprawling on the floor carrot stepped out. The thief ran straight into him.

Currently Vimes wasn't particularly concerned with the thief's well being, he was far too busy worrying about his own. He clutched at his chest as he tried to draw breath, gasping like a fish out of water for all the good it did. His eyesight was failing as he tasted the blood in his mouth. Carrot had run over to him, was crouched beside him, but Vimes could neither see not hear him. He arched his back as he slipped into unconsciousness, and awoke much later in his armchair at home.

  
  


Vimes sat bolt upright as soon as he awoke, or at least that was his intention. In practise he jerked forwards and then slumped down again as various parts of his body protested. "Sybil?" he rasped. 

"I'm here Sam," said his wife, stepping into his field of vision. Her expression was that of half-relief, half-annoyance. "I told you not to overdo it," she said.

"I'm sorry," Vimes replied sadly, "I just wanted to sort things out before I went.."

"I know," she answered, her expression softening to mostly just relief. "Do you still want to speak to your sergeants? Carrot wants to know."

Vimes forced himself to his feet, steadying himself on the arm of the chair. "Yes. I'll just... say what I've got to say and then I'll come home." He took a step forward and Sybil caught his arm before he nearly fell.

"I think I'll come with you," she said, and added, "Look, your obviously just having a nice walk with your wife, okay?" before his protestations began. 

Vimes opened his mouth to argue but the truth of the matter was he probably didn't have the strength to walk down to the Yard without his wife's arm to lean on. He shut it again. "Obviously," he said.

"That's better," said Lady Sybil with the ghost of smile touching her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

"At ease men," said Vimes from his seat. The sergeants relaxed slightly. He tried to think how he was going to phrase this. It was no good, he was never any good with words. "Er," he said and then his mind cleared a little and he continued, "Um, I thought it was probably best for you to find out from me now, before you heard it from someone else..." He gazed at the bewildered faces before him, and one that seemed quite pale with a nameless emotion, although Angua was normally quite pale so perhaps it was just his imagination... "I am taking some leave," he said and found that once he had started it was easy to keep going, "Probably for some time. Until I come back, Captain Carrot is going to be heading the Watch."

"Why sir?" said Colon, his face still not displaying any emotion other than confusion.

"I'm... sick, Fred," said Vimes, trying to avoid everyone's eyes. Gods! He hated this. There was nothing worse than admitting weakness in front of his officers. He stood quickly. He had to get out of here. "Thank you very much, I'm sure I'll be seeing you all soon." He hastened out of the room. Sybil was lurking awkwardly in the charge room, she saw his face and knew better than to hold his arm. She followed him as he rushed out of the Watch House.

"Are you alright Sam?" she asked. He opened his mouth to lie and decided against it.

"No, not really." It came out a little more gruffly then he had intended and he slipped his hand into hers to try and reassure her. "How's Sam been today?"

Sybil knew he was simply changing the subject but replied anyway. "He's a little peaky at the moment. I think he knows that something's wrong. I think he can tell..."

Vimes sighed. There was no escape.

They had reached their home. Wilkins was waiting in the hall and Vimes could hear Sam crying. "I'm sorry sir," said the butler, "But I can't seem to find out what's the matter..."

Vimes climbed the stairs to his son's room slowly and carefully, picked him up from his crib and rocked him gently. He quietened down almost immediately and in the silence he heard Sybil come in behind him. 

"I've said it before, and I'm going to say it again," said Vimes slowly, "I'm not going to give up. I'm not going to give in. I'm going to fight..." 

"I'll hold you to that," said Sybil with a laugh.

  
  


It had been nearly a month since Angua had seen her Commander and she hurried down the road to deliver the good news, that Igor had been successful and as soon as Vimes was ready he could proceed with the surgery.

She knocked on the door of the Ramkin (or should it be Vimes?) mansion and Wilkins the butler opened it. "Ah, Sergeant Angua," he said, "Come in!"

Angua stepped into the cool of the ancestral hall and followed the sounds of laughter and quiet voices to the Mildly Yellow Drawing Room. Lady Sybil was standing in the middle of the room laughing at the antics of her husband and son who were sitting on an armchair facing away from the door. Sybil noticed the young woman and smiled at her. 

"Angua! Nice to see you again. Do you want to speak to Sam?"

Angua nodded and stepped into the room. She turned to look at her Commander and stifled the gasp. It had to be Vimes, the eyes were right and the smell was right... but this was surely not the Commander who had spoken to them in his office such a short time ago. This man's eyes were sunk deep into a face so gaunt it looked like it belonged to a skeleton. The bones of his wrists protruded almost through the flesh, visible as he bounced his son on his knees. His clothes hung off him like a shroud and his face looked grey in the light. "S-sir," she managed, "Igor sent me to tell you, he's r-ready now sir, when you are."

"Hello Angua," said Vimes, eyes hard and cold, "It's good to see you looking so well. I know you can't say the same about me." There was a silence no could think how to fill and so Vimes continued. "Igor's ready, you say?"

"When you are, sir," she replied quickly.

"Good," said Vimes relief radiating from his features, "Is tomorrow acceptable?"

"Tomorrow is good sir."

"Well, you go and... you go and tell him tomorrow then."

  
  


Vimes lay on the sick bed already starting to feel drowsy a few minutes after downing the gloopy herbal mixture Igor had presented him with. It was time to say his goodbyes...

He kissed his son gently on the head and spoke sternly. "You behave for your mother, Sam Vimes. I'll be sure to hear if you don't."

Lady Sybil chuckled and passed the baby to Wilkins, who carried him out carefully and shut the door behind him with a click.

Vimes looked up into his wife's eyes and saw the barely disguised fear there that mirrored the look on his own face. He couldn't think of anything to say and instead carefully pushed himself up onto his elbows and kissed her instead. It was quite out of character for Sam Vimes to be quite so passionately desperate in his kisses but then he'd never been quite so uncertain of how long he might survive for. When they finally broke away he wiped the tears that had leaked out of Sybil's eyes away and gave her a weak smile.

"This isn't goodbye," he said firmly and she sniffed.

"I know," she said, her voice trembling, "I'll be here when you wake up..."

Igor knocked on the door and lurched in. "Thur?" he said and Vimes nodded to him.

"Sleep well," he heard Sybil whisper and he slipped gently into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Vimes opened his eyes to find the world full of shadows and smoke. "Sybil?" he said hesitantly, sitting upright.

"GUESS AGAIN," said a voice close at hand. It was a voice that seemed to bypass the ears and speak straight to the brain, and even worse it sounded vaguely familiar. 

He looked around him. Sitting on the sketchy outline of a chair was a seven foot skeleton, its eyes glowing blue in the dark world Vimes was currently inhabiting. It grinned at him and slow realisation dawned.

"Oh," he said, and then after a bit more thought, "Bugger!"

"I'M SORRY?" said Death.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" said Vimes, feeling it was just as well to be sure.

There was a pause. If it was possible for a skull to look anything other than mildly amused Vimes would have said Death looked slightly uncomfortable. "NOT EXACTLY," he said.

"Not exactly!" shouted Vimes, reaching out and shaking the skeleton, "How can you be not exactly dead?! You either aren't or you are! There's no not exactly!"

Death was impressed. Despite anger requiring glands that Vimes no longer possessed in his spectral form the Commander had gone from consciousness to violence in less than thirty seconds. He was obviously in the presence of a master. It was as if Vimes's very soul burned with a fierce rage.

Vimes, having realised shaking Death was not perhaps the most life enhancing move he would ever make, let go of the skeleton. Then he realised that as he was probably dead anyway and redoubled his grip. "I'm not in the mood to be messed about!"he said, "What the hell is going on?"

"ER," said Death, "ARE YOU AWARE OF THE POWER OF BELIEF?"

"What?" said Vimes.

"ARE YOU AWARE OF THE POWER OF BELIEF?" repeated Death.

Vimes thought about it. He thought he remembered hearing some wizards talking about it once at some reception somewhere, something about the Hogfather.... "I'm not sure," he said.

Death sighed, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO EXIST THERE MUST BE BELIEF? FOR THE GODS TO BE HERE NOW THERE MUST BE ENOUGH BELIEF ON THE DISC TO SUSTAIN THEM. IF THERE IS ENOUGH BELIEF THAN ANYTHING CAN CAN COME INTO BEING."

"Yes, I've heard that said," answered Vimes.

Death reached inside his robes and pulled out a lifetimer. It was slightly larger than most, but roughly cut, all sharp edges and raw surfaces. There was a name carved into the wood at the bottom in angular letters, almost runes, and Vimes saw it was his own. He glared at it and Death flicked the top bulb, which was empty of sand. It was filled with a flickering blue light. He stared harder and saw there was a single grain of sand in mid-fall from top to bottom, frozen in time. 

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"IT MEANS THAT YOU ARE NOT EXACTLY DEAD," said Death frankly and added hurriedly as Vimes growled, "THIS MAY TAKE SOME EXPLAINING." He clicked his fingers and the charcoal sketch of the bedroom disappeared. They were hovering above the city and Vimes tried to swallow down his nausea.

"That's Ankh-Morpork," said Vimes.

"YES," said Death. Vimes repressed the comment, 'I can see my house from here!' as Death continued. "IT IS A FOCUS POINT FOR BELIEF ON THE DISC."

"So I would imagine," muttered Vimes.

"SO, YOU UNDERSTAND THAT IF ENOUGH PEOPLE BELIEVE THAN ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE?" checked Death.

"Yes," replied Vimes.

"YOU ARE WELL KNOWN IN ANKH-MORPORK," said Death, "WELL RESPECTED."

Vimes snorted, "I wouldn't say that!"

"PERHAPS NOT BY THE UPPER CLASSES, YOUR GRACE, BUT THE LOWER CLASSES APPRECIATE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE FOR THE CITY POLICE SERVICE. IN SOME HOUSES IN MORPORK AND THE SHADES YOUR NAME IS SPOKEN WITH GREAT RESPECT."

"Really?" said Vimes, disbelieving. But then, the people he normally met were generally those not particularly happy about meeting a member of the Watch. Vimes spent a lot of his time arresting criminals, he left a lot of the public relations stuff to Carrot. Gratitude was not something he encountered a lot of from day to day.

"IN FACT SOME WOULD SAY YOUR NAME HAD BECOME SYNONYMOUS WITH THE IDEALS OF TRUTH AND JUSTICE."

Well, that was true enough. Sammies was the nickname for the new-style police officers the city turned out at a regular basis, those that didn't take bribes, those with more than the usual amount of intelligence, street knowledge and initiative.

"Really?" he said again.

"YES," replied Death, wondering if Vimes was going to get the hint.

"Wow!" he said, and Death sighed.

"THEY BELIEVE IN YOU ALMOST LIKE THEY BELIEVE IN THEIR GODS. YOU DISPENSE JUSTICE, YOU ARE A CHAMPION OF THE LOWER CLASSES, YOU GIVE THEM BACK A LITTLE TRUST IN THE AUTHORITIES THAT PRESIDE OVER THEM."

Vimes couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that. After a few moments he managed: "Is that why I'm not exactly dead?"

"YES," said Death, "THEIR BELIEF IS SUSTAINING YOU WHILE IGOR TRIES TO SAVE YOUR LIFE."

"Is it going to work?" Vimes ventured.

"I CANNOT SAY," said Death.

"Oh." A pause. "What do I do now?"

"I DON'T KNOW. I HAVE NEVER ENCOUNTERED THIS SITUATION BEFORE."

"What will happen if Igor does save my life? Will the sand flow backwards?"

"I DOUBT IT," said Death. He pulled out the lifetimer and gave it a little shake. Nothing moved. The light flickered suddenly and sand started to flow again from the top of the glass. Vimes squinted to see how much sand had appeared in the top bulb. It looked quite a sizeable amount... but Death had tucked it away. The world started to spin sickly and Vimes felt as if he was falling backwards.

"Er, goodbye," said Vimes as his vision began to fade.

"BE SEEING YOU," said Death.

"Er. When?" said Vimes but Death and the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork had disappeared. 

Vimes opened his eyes and to his relief the room was as he remembered it, sunlight streaming in through the window. He took a deep breath and blinked in surprise. He had been so used to breathing in short, shallow gasps for so long that to take a deep breath, to suck air into his lungs was a wondrous experience. It felt as if he had never breathed before and he took in a few more lungfuls. His chest ached down the middle with a dull fire and his ribs protested, but he carried on breathing in the same satisfied manner. "Sybil?" he said, struggling to sit up.

"She's outside thur," said Igor (1), "Taking Sam for a walk. I'll send someone to tell her you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Wonderful," said Vimes with true feeling, "Am I cured?"

"I would say tho, thur. There was thome problems in the surgery, but you pulled through. Lady Thybil thaid you would, she said you wouldn't thtop fighting."

Vimes grinned. It was good to be alive. 

  
  


It was a month later and Vimes saluted Vetinari carefully, feeling the gaze of the Patrician taking in his unnatural skinniness and still oddly pale complexion. "At ease, Commander," Vetinari said at last, suspicion still lingering in his eyes. But whatever Vetinari might think Vimes knew he was cured, he hadn't needed the final meeting with Igor last week to tell him that. He hadn't felt this good in /years/.

"Captain Carrot has done a fine job in maintaining the standards of the Watch laid down by yourself."

"I'm glad, sir," replied Vimes.

"Good," said the Patrician. He picked some keys up off his desk and handed them back over to Vimes cautiously. "The keys to the armoury."

"Thank you sir," said Vimes.

"I believe that the reports from the last two months are on your desk, Commander. I shan't keep you and prevent you from looking through them. My regards to your family."

"Thank you sir," said Vimes again with a bit of a grimace. Two months! He would be amazed if the old desk was still standing under the weight of all that paper.

He hurried out of the Palace and down towards the Yard the world feeling reassuringly right through the soles of his boots, the air smelling as pungent as always as he sucked it in through his nose. Only one thing would make it all perfect... Vimes thrust his hands into his pockets. Neither cigars nor alcohol were an option. He would simply have to find something else. That was it.

Vimes didn't spend much of his first day back in the office, but then no one had expected him to. He visited all of the Watch Houses, consorted with his sergeants and Captain Carrot about what he had missed and then headed home as the sky began to edge pink and gold, humming a jaunty little tune under his breath. He opened his front door to find the hall full of scurrying Watchmen, carrying armfuls of paper. Sybil appeared from a doorway, looking a little disgruntled, not at all like her normal self.

"What going on, Samuel Vimes?" she demanded, in her very distinct tone of voice.

"Er... good question." Vimes grabbed a young Watchman by the shoulder. "Um. Constable Yves, isn't it?"

"Yessir!" The constable stared at him with an attitude of ferocious obedience and slight glazed terror. 

"What are you lot doing?"

"Bringing the reports you wanted sir, from your desk."

"I only said to Carrot I wanted the absolutely essential ones. Ye gods, there's piles of the stuff!"

"Yessir!" agreed Yves. Vimes waved a hand to signal he could carry on and he visibly sagged with relief before scuttling away.

"Sorry Sybil," said Vimes, quailing slightly under his wife's ferocious glare, "I'll get it sorted... excuse me."

It was some time later when Sybil left her study and the dragon records to finally come to bed. Sam had kindly offered to put their son to bed, which she suspected was his way of apologising for the disruption of their house. She padded upstairs and pushed open the door to their bedroom. Sam was sitting up in bed, reading a report. She smiled, despite herself. It was good to see him looking so well.

"That's a big scar, you know," she said.

Vimes glanced down at his bare chest. "Mmm," he murmured, "One to add to the collection. Igor's stitching is good though. I'm sure it'll fade."

"Me too," agreed Sybil touching the still slightly raw edges with her fingers. "You could start exhibiting these, you've got such a collection."

Vimes chuckled, and put the report to one side. "Did you have a good day dear?"

"Fine thank you, until a load of Watchmen took over three of my living rooms and filled them with paper."

"Er... sorry," said Vimes.

"No need to ask how your day was," Sybil said with a smile.

"No. It was good. Except for..." he trailed off.

"What?" asked Sybil, staring suddenly right into his eyes. Vimes shifted uncomfortably under the piercing gaze.

"Nothing really. I just... even after everything... I nearly bought a packet of cigars. I can't help it! I have to have something to help with... with everything. I need a..a..." Vimes couldn't think of the right word.

"A vice?" said Sybil and his brow knitted in thought. 

"I think that's probably about right."

"Something to help you take your mind of things, help you relax?" she tried. He nodded, looking so miserable she felt moved to touch his cheek quickly and make him gloomily mirror her smile. "You managed to stay off the alcohol," she said, "I don't think you'll have any trouble with the cigars." She shifted slightly closer and the bed springs clinked. "I'm sure we'll find something to help you keep your mind of all the police work."

Vimes looked into her smiling eyes and felt the grin tug at the corners of his own mouth. "Me too," he said, putting his hand to her face and leaning in to kiss her. The bed springs decided to make their presence known again, and after that there was almost silence for a while, except for the soft hissing noise the candle made as Vimes reached out with his free hand and pinched the wick to extinguish the flame, and the springs complaining periodically.

There was suddenly a ferocious knocking on the door. "Oh no," sighed Vimes, "Not /now/, of all times."

Sybil sighed too, nose to nose with him. The knocking came again, louder and more frenzied. "Commander Vimes!" someone shouted, "You've got to come quick! It's murder, sir!"

"I'm /not/ here," he hissed to Sybil and she laughed.

"You might as well answer it otherwise they'll only wake Sam." On cue the wails started from the direction of the nursery.

"Oh alright," said Vimes, "But we /are/ going to continue this later."

"I'll hold you to that," Sybil warned.

"I hope so," said Vimes, by now almost having reached the door.

Lady Sybil was laughing again. "Um... Sam?" she said as he turned the handle.

"Ah," said Vimes and hastily pulled on his dressing gown, tying it roughly around his middle as he took the stairs two at a time.

Constable Ping was on the doorstep. "There's a big riot... Dolly Sisters... not sure what's going on, but Sergeant Angua though you ought to be told." Ping took in Vimes's dressing gown and added, "Sorry sir, I didn't know you were asleep."

"I wasn't," said Vimes which was true enough although he wasn't going to discuss details with the young man on his doorstep. "Right. Wait here while I grab my uniform." He ran back upstairs. Sybil re-entered, carrying Sam as he was buckling on his breastplate.

"Are you going to be long?"

"No," said Vimes, "That's a promise." He kissed both of them hurriedly and then ran back down the stairs, grabbing his coat from its hook as he stepped out into the night. He felt a slight twinge of guilt as he ran down the darkening streets, but he'd promised now, and for once it was one he was going to be able to keep. He was going to make sure of that.

  
  


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Hehehehe. I couldn't resist a bit of Sam/Sybil at the end, hope it was tasteful enough for you all. See, you all knew he wasn't going to die really, didn't you?? Let's hope Mr. Pratchett himself has something similar in mind to me about Vimes's chest pain... I think I might pop my clogs myself if he dies!!! Thanks for all the reviews by the way folks - Lunar. 

1. Igor suffered from what was classed by his Uberwaldian peers as a speech impediment, quite often he managed to say the letter s without lisping.


End file.
